


Malignant Insecurity

by Terror_AI



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, M/M, Pre- Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots, Trans Sunny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:55:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27927868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terror_AI/pseuds/Terror_AI
Summary: She cries like it’s everything, and Snake doesn’t know how to tell her that the world doesn’t revolve around this one dress.
Relationships: Otacon/Solid Snake
Comments: 8
Kudos: 53





	Malignant Insecurity

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing here but a sweet, trans Sunny for your consideration.

When the situation arose in which Snake, Otacon, and Sunny had finally eaten all there was to have in the apartment - excluding none but condiments and coffee grounds - Snake volunteered to do the shopping. Sunny would always tag along when Otacon would go; he would never concede to being a mother hen and insisted that he had to keep an eye on her at all times. Snake recognized his paranoia before he could ever see a rationality in it. It wasn’t a hard ruling when he decided there was a reversal of roles in order. For Otacon’s sake. 

He’s gritting his teeth to not bemoan his decision now, though, as the toe guards of two pink, polka-dotted tennis shoes kick relentlessly into the front of his stomach while he pushes a shopping cart through a grocery store at one in the morning. Luckily, Sunny recognized his discontentment and decided to sing a cartoon jingle to lift his spirits. Something she’s been doing for upwards of ten minutes now, with no pauses. 

Snake turns a corner, swerving right by the toy isle. Sunny frantically looks from the shelves of twinkling toddler pleasantries to Snake, her singing coming to an abrupt stop. Snake shakes his head in the softest refusal he could possibly give, but she still isn’t having it. 

She scowls up at him, her brow meeting angrily between her eyes. “Why did we passed it? You passed it, daddy!” 

Snake doesn’t entertain her anger. He snorts instead, picking up a can of peas and tossing it into the cart. 

“Your face will get stuck like that if you don’t cut it out.” 

She crosses her arms, pint-sized legs extending in a fierce kick towards his stomach that he easily dodges. 

“Not true!”

“Is too.” He continues onto the next aisle. “Anyway, I said no. Ask Otacon about it next time. He always caves when it comes to you.” 

She huffs and glances away, frowning.

“You look pitiful.” Snake rests his forearms on the cart’s railing, bringing his face closer to her level. “He babies you too much… You’re spoiled rotten, kiddo.” 

“W-Why don’t you ever buy me toys like daddy Hal does?” 

“Hey, I buy you plenty of things.” 

“But not toys!” 

Snake exhales one long, exaggerated sigh. “I’ll tell you what,” he says, pulling a U-turn mid aisle and bee-lining straight for the kid’s section. “You pick out one thing you like and as long as you promise not to ask for anything else until we leave, I’ll buy it for you.” 

Her eyes instantly light up. That type of sparkle only children have - pure, unadulterated glee. “C-Can I really?” 

“Sure, knock yourself out.” Snake unbuckles her tiny, cart-mounted seat, lifting her by the armpits onto the floor. He’s hardly set her down before she’s rushing headfirst into the girls’ clothing section, straight for a pair of purple leggings with Care Bears on the front. 

Unlike Otacon, Snake is actually capable of telling her _‘no.’_ Otacon draws it out, twists her begging into exemption because _We never get her anything, Snake!_ Discipline is something Snake has always had a firm grasp on. Mental, physical, the many forms denoting precision and constitution, but childcare is… different that way. He doesn’t always have the slightest notion as to what he’s doing, so he figures he should just do what he knows best. Earnest diplomacy with toddlers doesn’t often yield payout, but when it does, the stakes are high and the rewards are outstanding. 

“Watch your head,” he says, catching the back of Sunny’s shirt to keep her from walking right into a clothing rack. She doesn’t stop moving, unfazed. 

“I want that one!” She points to a graphic tee covered in cartoon characters.

Before Snake can manage to get a word in, her head has swiveled clear in the other direction, straight to a bright, neon-pink tutu - also addled with friendly, fictional faces. 

“That one, daddy! Can I ha-have it?” She dashes around the racks without an ounce of discretion. 

Snake waits for the flame of her excitement to snuff itself out. The more she scruitanizes every article on the aisle, the less sure she becomes, every pony image plastered on a dress too tacky, cat-eared hoodies not enough to satisfy. The light-up sketchers simply too plain. She doesn’t relent, and he can see her enjoyment gradually burying itself beneath a heap of indecision. 

“Alright, listen,” he starts, crouching beside her antsy figure stoic and still beside a rack, trying to discern which pair of socks she likes most. “What, uh…” he glances around, the bulky bundles of mounted clothing boxing them both in. “What _exactly_ are you looking for?” 

Her mouth closes as she considers for a moment. Then, she shrugs. 

“Yeah, that was a stupid question. Sorry.” Snake watches the irony go right over her head. He takes a knee, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Just take it slow. Find a couple of things you like and we can weed out what looks best later. Don’t rush it.” 

She nods, belatedly. Her tiny tennis shoes soon thump down the aisle, with Snake following closely. 

The indecision of children is immense, matched only by their determination. Their unwillingness to take ‘no’ for an answer. Sunny is probably the most illogical one Snake has met so far. She has Snake’s exactness when pursuing something she wants - she’s smart, doesn’t hesitate to play angles, either, like Otacon’s charitable side - preceded by an anxious propensity when it boils down to seizing the payout, figuring out what the goal happens to be, much like Otacon. She always desires, but never comes to any rulings as to what exactly she wants. 

Snake sees a little of a lot of people in her. He realizes often just how much of a sponge she is, vulnerable to circumstance, though simultaneously set in the proverbial stone. Something unchangeable and ever-changing. 

“I think I like this o-one.” Her little hand forms a fist around the hem of a red and black dress, with a satin bow at the waist and a plaid skirt.

Snake looks down at her, and then to the dress, crossing his arms. “I mean, it’s not what _I_ would choose but—”

“Daddy!” 

“Fine, sorry.” Snake’s aware that the quickest way out of a woman’s life is to insult her sense of fashion, moreover the size of what she wears, but this specific occasion calls for a little impunity. “Sunny, this is…” he rotates the hanger in his hand, spinning the dress. “This just isn’t big enough for you.” There’s no reason to beat around the bush. 

Or maybe there is. 

Her brow line dips, the light in her eyes dissipating along with it. She looks up at Snake and steps a little closer, knees together, feet taking tiny, shy bounds towards him. 

“I can’t… have it?” 

Snake understands that children don’t have any sense of social norms. Their politeness exists between one reward and the next, and it’s up to convenience whether they abide by another’s ruling. It’s not like she knows that what he just said was vaguely insulting; she’s more interested in the refusal than anything. 

He chunks diplomacy and strives instead for playground rules, kindergarten tactics. “Sorry, that was…” he scratches the back of his neck, slinging the dress over his arm for safe holding. “I was - just being a meanie. I’ll hang onto this. Keep looking.” 

But her eyes still water. Vulnerable and small, her voice sounds like a harp, whimsical and frail. “Can I have it? I can’t - y-you’re not gonna let me?”

This is guerrilla warfare. 

“No, that’s not…” Snake clears his throat. “You can pick out some more. I didn’t mean anything by it, kiddo.” He ruffles her hair, disheveled and hanging over her glassy eyes. “Go ahead. Find something else you like.” 

She seems satisfied enough, but still looks a momentary inconvenience away from breaking down into a puddle. 

Snake follows behind her for a while, picking up shirts and pants here and there. Whatever she’s mildly interested in. After a solid five articles, he’s suddenly conscious of the time and Otacon’s grocery list weighing down his pocket. 

“Think I’ll have to veto that one.” 

She looks up at him with her hand midway to another piece of clothing, and frowns, dropping it. “Did I pi-picked out too many?” 

“Yeah. You’re getting up there.” He maneuvers the stack of items in a feasible row, allowing for a somewhat clear view of each, and lets her give the final verdict. “We can’t take all of these home. So It’s time for you to make a decision.” 

Her mouth twists. A pout, then a look of contemplation. It plagues her like a fever. Has her crossing her arms, sticking her tongue out between her lips in one long, grueling moment before meeting a conclusion. 

Snake doesn’t dare to interrupt her process, and when she asks him to hold one out and spin it, he begins to think there’s a method to her madness. 

She throws a finger at the red and black dress. “That one!” 

Snake sighs, and tosses the others onto a shelf. He holds the dress out for the both of them to examine. “You sure? The others were nice too…” 

“But I like that one!” She puckers her lips in a pout. “Y-You saided I could have it before…” 

“I also said it wasn’t really your size.” He digs for the tag, revealing it to her. “See that? It’s not meant for kids as big as you.”

She pinches it with both hands, staring at the large label, expression surprisingly impassive. Processing. 

“But…” she starts, pointing to the little brunette girl on the label. “S-She can fits into it. I’m only, uhm - four a-and a half.” She holds up the appropriate amount of fingers to prove her point. “I’m too big?” 

“No, Sunny. You’re not too much of anything. Some kids develop differently than others. That’s all.” 

“I grewed wrong,” she says, gazing up at Snake with eyes as wide as dinner plates. “Snake, did I grew wrong? W-Why don’t I look like - like her?” 

Snake kneels beside her, leaning back on his heels. He grips her softly by the arms, tone turning as gentle as he can manage. “Sunny…” he starts, but the words he had planned to say leave his mind just as quick. 

She doesn’t see it like he does. She doesn’t yet know of the series of events that led to her becoming what she is, to her being here with him. She sees only malformations. Disappointment. 

Snake sees a sequence of unfortunate calamities and selfish men at the helm of their doing. He sees crooked researchers like Dr. Clarke, subjects like Big Boss and their monstrosities that fall under codenames like _Solid_ and _Liquid_. Wastes of time and resources. Utter mistakes. 

Sunny is none of those things. Snake understands this because he has lived as a chip on someone else’s shoulder his whole life, his own existence a testament to the avarice of voracious intellects. Cyclical and cruel. But he isn’t sure yet just how to tell her the ‘why’ of it all. Why she lives the way she does, why the world doesn’t see children like her as normal. True, her appearance isn’t the same as most girls her age; they have angular jaws, pointed chins. Hair that grows unchecked, vast eyes and minor builds. Sunny, being the amalgamation of too many people - an anomaly of her own devising, plain and simple - is none of those things. 

Snake caves, unable to help his remorse on her behalf. He’s sighing and handing her the dress before he knows why. “It couldn’t hurt to try it on, I guess…” 

Her expression doesn’t change at this, still too quizzical. Conflicted. She lets him pull her shirt off, leaving her camisole beneath, and begins her struggle to get the article on. 

She seems tireless, at first. Squeaky grunts escape her mouth when she can’t fit past the cinched waist, cheek snagged between her teeth as she struggles to squeeze into it, maneuvering in ways that can’t be comfortable. The moment she realizes there’s no hope, she falls onto her butt, dress hanging off of her shoulders with rosy cheeks and a helpless look on her face. 

Snake rubs her back until she hiccups, kneading her eyes like they burn. Her pale skin is blotchy around the curve of her cheeks, dappled and singed by hot tears. 

It’s an agonizing sound, hearing his child cry. Something he never thought would manage to make his list of miseries. Yet here he is. 

She murmurs something pained and incoherent. An inquiry with an impossible explanation. Snake tells himself it will pass, that the severity of this is momentary, superficial. That this is one of those ‘toddler things,’ nothing more. 

Yet she cries like it’s everything, and he doesn’t know how to tell her that the world doesn’t revolve around this one dress, or that her life will hold far more disappointment than this, but he can’t explain why he knows that she already realizes that. Why this feels like the tip of some destructive iceberg hidden in the pacific fog. A malignant insecurity. 

He wipes a fat tear from the groove of her eye socket with his thumb, her wailing ebbing into small, despairing whimpers.

“Sunny,” he says slowly, pulling her close. “There’s a million and one dresses out there, but there’s only one of you. It’s not your fault that people don’t make clothes with kids like you in mind. Doesn’t mean you aren’t meant to enjoy the way you look.” For some reason, Raiden’s name digs itself out of Snake’s hindbrain, his absent expression from their last conversation finding its way into his head for the first time in years. Reminiscence. A roundabout association with the trembling, anxious child in his arms. “You weren’t… _built_ wrong,” he murmurs, caressing her cheek. “You’re fine the way you are, kiddo.” 

He stoops down and kisses her temple. She leans into it, clinging to his arm, face buried in the fabric around his bicep, quieter now. He puts her shirt back on and lets her ride in the basket all the way back to the toy aisle. 

She doesn’t look at those gadgets and plushies the same, however; through bleary eyes, they all appear insignificant. 

Snake picks out a big, blue elephant with droopy ears and a bean-filled interior, and she accepts it without a word. He takes his little moon outside and lets her weep at the midnight sky. 

She’s asleep when Snake carries her up the apartment’s stairwell, his arms weighted by grocery bags, her small, limp body against his chest, swaying with every step he takes. He hardly manages to jingle his key in the lock before Otacon opens the door, fretting over what took the two of them so long. Even he doesn’t manage to wake her. 

Drifting in a quiet sea of doubts, the two of them watch her sleep. Snake explains what happened to Otacon, resigned and matter-of-fact, and he’s less than perplexed. Pessimistic, if anything. Desensitized. Otacon finally caves and makes a few calls, and Snake pretends to not know what they’re about. _Issues for tomorrow,_ he tells himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Solid Snake - world's #1 dad.
> 
> I’ll probably make this into a longer series.


End file.
